Memoirs of an Assassin
by Kirky0331
Summary: The memoirs of Aldor, a Nord who joins the Imperial Legion as a young man and eventually becomes sucked into the Dark Brotherhood. Rated T for violence, and some strong language, which will occur later on in the story. This is a work in progress, and I hope to work on it a bit every week. I hope you all enjoy it.
1. Preface & Beginnings

**Memoirs of an Assassin**

by Aldor

**Preface**

This story is not meant to be a work of fiction, nor a tale of grandeur. It is the harsh reality that was, and to a lesser extent, is me. As Nords of Skyrim, we are expected to handle tragedy, but that doesn't make it any more easier to bear. For those who I have murdered, my sincerest apologies. For their families, I am absolutely sorry from the bottom of my heart. Though my words might taste like dirt, as there is no way I can possibly bring your loved ones back from Oblivion, I do hope my testimony can make life a bit less heavy.

I am but an old man now. The days go by slowly, and to pass the time, I write. I've written several books in the past few decades, all to modest acclaim. If you, reader, have read anything by the author Valtyr Wind-Blade, you've read my works.  
>Besides writing from my home, I enjoy watching the boats from the Solitude Docks go out to sea in the early hours of the morning. For just an hour a day, it makes me forget the pain I feel from my past deeds.<p>

Soon, I will pass away. It is inevitable, and I do not fear death. I belong in the Void, whilst my victims belong in Sovngarde. I do wish that when I die, those I have murdered live a joyous afterlife, which they deserve.

Some might call this a confession or a will; I consider it a testimony. A testimony to the life I have lived, a testimony to the lives I have slain. These, my dear readers, are the memoirs of an assassin.

**Beginnings**

I was born in the trading post of Eris, at the border of Cyrodiil and Skyrim. Eris is not much more than a hamlet at base of the Jerall Mountains these days, but when I was a boy, it was a lively village filled with travelers journeying between Skyrim and Imperial province.

I was born on the Eighth of Heartfire, 4E, 183. My father Erik was a carpenter, and my mother Freya ran a food stall for those passing through. My ancestry on my father's side is pure Nord, while on my mother's it is both Nord and Imperial. Though I am old now, and they died when I was just a child, I do remember how loving they were.

The earliest memory I can recollect is when I went to Falkreath with my father so he could purchase lumber from the local mill. While Falkreath wasn't terribly bigger than Eris was at that time, I remember how exciting it was to go there. Life wasn't bustling like Eris. Falkreath was slow, and gloomy. I recall the conversation my father and I had going in to the town when I was about six.

"Father, why is this town so sad?"

"Falkreath, my son, has seen the terrific might of many great battles," he replied morosely. "Many men and women have died here. It is home to the largest graveyard in Skyrim."

That cemetary always stood out to me. The sun never seemed to shine in Falkreath, and the graves always were shrouded in a cloud of mist. As a young boy, it was haunting to see such a peculiar sight; now it is nothing special, like seeing a wave lap onto the shore.

When I was a month or so shy of seven, my mother caught a case of ataxia, which left her bed-ridden for several weeks. The condition of her disease, however, did not improve, and she passed two days before my birthday. I did not understand her death, as young children tend to do, but it deeply hurt my father. Though he never let his emotions get the better of him, he was shocked and wounded by dying.

At age nine, my father went to Falkreath for lumber. He never returned. He was missing for several days, which didn't worry me too much because he often took his time and enjoyed staying overnight at the inn. I knew something was wrong when my aunt ran into her house (where I was staying for the time-being) hysterically crying. My father had been slaughtered, for lack of a better word, by bandits. At the time, my family wouldn't tell me what happened, as they thought I was too young. I felt alienated.

The killer, a man who's name I don't recall, was caught in the next forty-eight hours. Jarl Dengeir personally sent a steward to invite me to the execution, but Uncle Sven wouldn't let me preside. I was fine with this, as I didn't want to see the man who took my dear father's life at all.

The rest of my preteen years were a blur, as were the majority of my teenage year. I lived with my aunt and uncle and cousin until I was fifteen, when they moved to Bruma, in Cyrodiil. I was invited to encompany them, but I decided against it. While Eris was a disputed region at the border, I decided that Skyrim would be my home. Eris these days technically is part of Cyrodiil. Back when I was a young man, it was a settlement in Falkreath Hold. However, war treaties and the like have moved the town back to the Imperial Region, where it now houses nothing more than an inn for travelers and a few dwellings.

At nineteen, I was hunting when I accidentally entered Jarl Siddgeir's (Dengeir's nephew) hunting grounds and killed a fabled stag that was revered by the current Jarl. While this was purely a mistake, Siddgeir believed I had intentionally killed the deer. I was given a choice by the Jarl: jail or service in the Imperial Legion. As I didn't want to be viewed as a criminal for the rest of my life as the result of a misunderstanding, I decided to join the Imperials. The next morning, I began the long trip to Solitude to recieve my training as a soldier.


	2. Training

**Training**

I arrived in Solitude in the evening. The sky was a burnt orange mixed with hues of pink. It was pretty, but not as pretty as the city. I had never seen a city so beautiful. Cobblestone roads, grand architecture: I felt like I was in the setting of a fable. Falkreath was a desolate wasteland compared to this marvel of civilization.

However, I couldn't stop to revel in the beauty of Solitude. My task was to go to Castle Dour, where my training would commence. I was in awe when I entered the courtyard. The castle itself was bigger than both Falkreath and Eris. A quaestor stood in the courtyard, armor shiny like the stars. He held a list which I could tell was several pages long from a few feet away.

"Name?," he said as I approached him.

"Aldor, of Eris. Falkreath Hold," I replied.

He glanced at the list, then scoffed. "A criminal, huh?"

"I'm no crimi-," I stammered before I was cut off.

"Quiet. It says you've been sent up here as punishment for a crime. You're a criminal, regardless of the offense," he said coldly. "As you are here for a crime, you'll be assigned to the 3rd Training Platoon. Training begins tomorrow. Go to the Trainee Barracks, over there-" he pointed to a large, oak door "-and get settled. Now," he hissed sharply.

I headed over to the barracks. Another quaestor, who looked much friendlier, guided me to my barracks. A praefect, an Imperial, sat in the front of the room, watching over us. As we were all nervous, and none of knew each other, the room was mostly quiet. After a few more minutes, and a couple more recruits came in the room, the praefect stood up.

"My name is Praefect Tarin, and I'll be in charge of this platoon while your training commences. The reason you are in the 3rd instead of the 1st or 2nd platoons is because you are criminals. You have committed crimes against Skyrim, and this is how you will pay off your debts," he paused and breathed deeply. "You may view me as harsher than the other platoon's commanders, and that is true. You're not here to fight with pride, you are here just to avoid jail or the chopping block."

The men all had looks of fear on their faces. They could tell Tarin was not bluffing.

He continued. "Most, if not all of you, are cowards. And with that, I'm going to work the cowardice out of your damn bodies. Now, get some sleep. Tomorrow will make you wish that you are suffering in Oblivion. Have a goodnight, boys." He left the room.

We all started whispering amongst each other. _"What will happen to us?" "Oblivion? Tomorrow will be worst than Oblivion?" "I can't do this. Divines, save me!"_

Fear. Fear is what every man in that room felt. Though we were scum, we were scared like children. After we realized worrying wouldn't help one bit, we decided to get one last night of rest. One last night before Oblivion began.

_"Wake the fuck up!"_

The doors to our barracks had opened. Men began to groan. A few even rolled over to try and get back to sleep.

"Listen up, milk-drinkers!," Tarin called in a shrill voice. "It's time for Oblivion to begin. Out, out to the courtyard!"

Myself and my fellow "comrades" got up and hurriedly walked to the Castle Dour courtyard. The two other training platoons were out alongside us. They all had looks of fear on their faces.

The sky was still relatively dark, minus for a few pink wisps in the east. The only real light came from torches that some quaestors held. Roll call began from a list that a Tribune held, beginning with first platoon.

_"Baldur!"_

_"Here!"_

_"Bjorn!"_

_"Present!"_

The roll call lasted for at least half an hour, with us standing in the cold Solitude air. Towards the end of our platoon's roll call, the act of insubordination occurred.

"Where is that lizard?!"

Our platoon was made up of many races, mostly Nords, but a few others. This was the only Argonian, and he decided to avoid training by staying in the barracks.

Torin ran inside to look for him. After a minute of yelling, the Argonian came out, being dragged by our platoon's commander.

"You scaled bastard, why weren't you out for roll call?"

The Argonian smiled smugly, which infuriated Torin. He pulled out his wooden baton, which he would use to discipline us. A look of terror glimmered in the Argonian's eyes, and his smile quickly faded.

"Want to laugh some more, you son of a whore?," Torin jested.

"No sire," the Argonian stuttered. "I am terribly sorry, sir."

Torin smiled cruelly. "It's a shame that I don't accept apologies," he coldly stated. He then proceeded to raise his baton and start smashing the lizard's skull in.

Cries off sheer anguish exploded from the Argonian's lips. Blood trickled down his face. Our praefect was not relenting.

The tribune ended the beating, but not until the damage had been done. "Torin, stop! Stop what you're doing now!"

Torin managed to get in one final hit, then stopped. The lizard was curled on the ground, crying, covered in his blood.

"Torin, report to the officer's quarters and wait there for me. This is unacceptable."

Torin shrugged and walked off.

"In the mean time," the tribune continued, "the third platoon will join up with the second for the time being. Praefect Abllio?"

"Yes, sir?," a young officer asked.

"Take the recruits to the waters. Commence training. And have those two Bosmer brothers in the front take the Argonian to the infirmary."

"Of course, sir. Recruits, follow me!," he shouted into the dawn air.

We headed out of the castle yard, roughly a hundred and eighty of us. We marched three-by-three through Solitude. Nobody was out, and the city was deserted. After ten minutes of marching, we were at the Solitude Docks, right by the shores of the waters. Cold, frigid, water.


End file.
